


What Owns Us

by Only_1_Truth



Series: Catboy!Q AU [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Acceptance, Although it depends upon your definition, Catboys & Catgirls, Even Q isn't quite sure what they are, Explicit Consent, Kissing, M/M, Master/Pet, Nudity, Pre-Relationship, Q is a Holmes, Q is a catboy, adjusting back to normalcy is hard, bdsm undertones, mentions of past human slavery, petting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 14:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13273020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: Q is adjusting to life as a free citizen of the UK, but sometimes he can't shake off all that he learned as a pet catboy in Russia.  The thing is, not all he learned there was bad, but no one understands that.  Except a certain 00-agent...In which Q just needs to be a pet cat sometimes, and if that means eating from a bowl at Bond's feet, Bond is happy to oblige.





	What Owns Us

**Author's Note:**

> I'd recommend reading the first in this series, as I don't know if this fic will stand on its own - but if you're already familiar with the world, then this should fit right in :) Q and his little cat ears and tail just needed some extra lovin' so I wrote more...

Ownership.  Stability.  At one point those two words had become, if not synonymous, at least symbiotic – two words whose definitions intersected in unexpectedly positive ways.  Stockholm Syndrome had forced the initial joining of these words, during five years of being a ‘pet’ to some person or another.  However, Q didn’t realize how truly comfortable he’d become with this mentality until he’d found freedom again.

  
It was seven p.m. on a Friday and Q knew with every fiber of his being that he was in London, England, and that with his autonomy returned to him, he could do anything he wanted.  His family was still coming to grips with his miraculous reappearance, but to make up for how long they’d all been apart, Q knew that his parents and brothers would do basically anything for him – and let him get away with anything.  Q was free to make his own choices, and despite so long in captivity, he knew that he still had the kind of technological acuity that would make him eminently employable and valuable.

  
Despite these facts, and with the full knowledge of his own agency, Q was presently kneeling in the middle of a carpeted floor, his lean body naked and exposed.

Some part of Q was aware that this should have made him nervous – or embarrassed, or even afraid and angry.  There was a dish of food beneath his nose, and he was expected to eat from it like a pet.  This was an experience that he had many memories of, with his buyers in Russia.  In keeping with the laws there, people had seen his feline ears and tail and had treated him in accordance with those traits, largely ignoring that the rest of him was human.  That was simply how a catboy was treated there, and once, that had infuriated Q beyond words.

At some point, however, his thoughts had changed.

_Ownership.  Stability._

After being kidnapped and sold in a different country, trafficked as an exotic pet, Siger Q. Holmes had survived by simply accepting many things.  He was at peace with his own adaptability, knowing that egos were nothing but liabilities, and that pride was a hindrance to survival.  It had reached the point where he’d realized, quite simply, that he had needs.  Because of what he’d survived, those needs had warped.  Changed.  
Become ownership and stability.  His family didn’t understand.

James Bond did.

Q was naked on hands and knees right now because he wanted to be.  Because the toughest of creatures were those who adapted to their surroundings, and Q had adapted to being sub-human at times.  Perhaps someday Q would adapt again, to living once more in England where beastmen like himself were equal to full humans – but not today.  Not yet.  Right now, Q was aware of the fact that he still needed things that would unsettle (and possibly disgust) his family if they ever found out.

Not James Bond, though.

“Go on.”  Bond’s voice was familiar by now, a deep rumble that was rough-edged but somehow still soothing.  He was standing close enough that Q could see the man’s shoes directly to his right, without having to turn his head.  “Unless you aren’t hungry?”

There was the slightest edge of tease in the voice, so faint that it was like a puff of smoke hitching a ride on a clean breeze.  It felt natural, and it further settled something in Q’s core – something that had been unsettled all day, nettling him, and only relaxing when Q had gotten to Bond’s flat and started explaining, started asking for what he needed, and then started undressing.  Instead of being startled or scandalized, James had simply started cooking, saying that he’d do this – but only if he could ensure that Q’s meal was respectable.  Q had chuckled and said that hardly any of this was respectable, but apparently Bond didn’t quite agree.

Respectable or not, Q found something soothing as he slipped into this role.  It was like pulling on an old glove, feeling the familiar fabric hugging tight to his hands and warming them.  The part of his mind that told him that this was demeaning and wrong grew quieter and quieter, and Q inhaled, smelling slivers of seared pork, sweet pear slices, and bread that somehow still smelt fresh despite the fact that James must have bought it sometime before Q’s unexpected arrival.  There was even a low saucer filled with apple cider – the steam of it rose to fog Q’s glasses.

As Q leaned closer, feeling more and more like a cat as he swished his tail, the man next to him sat down.  Q wasn’t used to his owners staying so close while he ate, but James wasn’t his owner, so after a brief balking of his reflexes, Q settled again.  The instincts that he’d acquired in Russia were not so rigid, apparently, as to deny this little change.  “Take your time,” Bond murmured quietly, and Q felt one last knot unclench in his stomach.  Despite the fact that James knew more about Q’s history than perhaps anyone else did, the dark-haired young man had still feared derision.  Now, though, he heard only understanding and patience in the agent’s voice.

Freed by that knowledge, Q closed his eyes, extending his tongue.  He let it be a surprise, his first taste, and therefore felt a little, unexpected thrill at the fresh sweetness that lit up the tip of his tongue: the pear, crisp and cool.  Settling his weight so that he was more easily sitting upon his heels, hands naturally braced at the level of his shoulders like any good cat over its dish, Q leaned the last little bit necessary to catch the piece of pear within his teeth.  Another piece soon followed, Q opening his eyes to appreciative slits as he noted how easy this was – not only emotionally and psychologically, but physically, because Bond had sliced the fruit so small.  All of Q’s owners had demanded that he eat like this, at least from time to time, but none had taken such care in the preparation of his food as James had.  And all the while, the agent just sat next to him, close enough to touch but respectfully quiet and as unassuming as two old friends watching a movie.  Q wondered idly if James’ easy acceptance came from the fact that he was an MI6 agent, a double-oh, and therefore had seen too many things in his life to be easily unsettled.

Q wondered if training and experience had nothing to do with it – and if, instead, Bond was just special.

The smell of the pork chop was too tempting to ignore any longer, and Q tried to catch a piece as neatly as he could between his teeth.  He was aware of how he ended up with juices smeared upon his chin despite his efforts, and briefly rankled at the fact – old-Q, Q-before-the-kidnapping, would have hated this, would have fastidiously railed against the mess.  That was before, though; now, the emotion faded quickly beneath a tide of pragmatic acceptance.  This was hardly the most debasing thing that Q had ever been forced to do – and no one was forcing him to do this.

Strengthening Q’s feeling that this was fine, that this was all right, was the reassurance that Q’s partner in all this continued to be untroubled.  There was no comment about the inherent clumsiness of eating without hands, no chuckle.  In fact, as Q went for another piece, he felt the unexpected pressure of a hand upon his head, starting just behind where Q’s cat ears stood pricked and petting down Q’s upper back.

Even as a child, Q had appreciated being petted.  There was nothing unusual about that – just as you rarely found a birdboy or –girl with a fear of heights, you rarely found a catboy or –girl who disliked a friendly stroke.  Q had gotten particularly used to James’ hand, and now that familiarity tempered Q’s surprise at feeling someone’s hand on him while he was busy eating.  Some cats, Q knew (actual, four-legged, full-blooded cats), wouldn’t stand such conduct, but…

Q decided that he liked it.  Rather a lot, in fact.  It reassured him that everything was all right, and that nothing he was doing here was twisted or sick or too broken to fix.

“You’re so elegant.”  James’s voice was as unexpected as his touch, but the way the man spoke – quiet and low – made his voice innocuous.  Q was able to keep eating without being truly disturbed, and part of him wondered if James had even meant to say those words aloud.

Bond’s hand hesitated and then lifted, but only to come down for another caress, this time starting high enough on Q’s head that it passed over his ears and pushed them gently down against his hair.  Q loved it when Bond did that, and he suspected that Bond, in turn, liked doing it.

“Anyone who saw you like this would agree,” the agent went on, and the truly shocking thing was, Q thought that the man was being utterly serious, “Anyone who wouldn’t agree would have to be damn blind.”  The next stroke took a moment to rub at the soft patch behind Q’s right ear, where fur became hair.  

Q paused, closing his eyes and chasing flavors of spice and herbs across his lips with the tip of his tongue, digesting what James was saying.  The agent’s heavy yet careful hand continued down the back of Q’s skull and slid slowly and unabashedly between Q’s shoulder-blades.  Despite Q’s state of undress, there was no shyness in the touch.  Q thrilled (not for the first time) at how lucky he was to have found someone who’d had embarrassment largely trained out of him.  Q remembered again the first time they’d met and how (after Q had realized that the blond-haired man wasn’t going to kill him) they’d fallen asleep together like tired peas in a pod.  It had been easy and uncomplicated.  Catboys like Q were known for being very accepting of physical contact; the fact that James had gone along with it without complaint had been an unasked for gift.

Since then, James had done an awful lot for Q without complaint, and despite how personal and almost intimate those situations had gotten, Bond remained imperturbable – like now.  The tension that Q had been stockpiling since he’d last been able to meet up with James further leached out of him with each easy touch to his naked skin.  He felt a purr starting to thrum in his throat, and closed his eyes again, enjoying the food purely with his sense of smell and taste and ceasing to feel self-conscious as more of it stained his lips, chin, and even the tip of his nose.

Right now, he was a cat.  Just a cat, and the world was simple.  He didn’t have to remember how to act in British society, where he was suddenly an equal again; he didn’t have to anticipate the expectations of a family that couldn’t understand what he’d gone through. Instead, he was being fed, and doing all that was expected of him.  That was all that Q had wanted out of this, but now he was getting even more than that: he was being cared for.  His ‘owner’ was so transparently pleased that Q felt like his whole body was warming in reciprocal pleasure.

When Q had arrived at James’ doorstep this time, sleep-deprived and anxious and as tense as one of his brother’s violin strings, he’d only been looking for two things: Ownership. Stability. He was trying to transition back into the boy his family had lost, but it was hard, like jumping right into an ocean after five years in the desert and being expected to swim like he used to.  Fortunately, James understood Q’s need for a life-preserver in this metaphorical situation – if only so that Q could catch his breath and reorient himself before trying to swim again.  This was more than a mere life-preserver, though.  This was a friendly, unjudging shore that Q could climb up on.

Q was relaxing, and perhaps James was also becoming more at ease with his respective role.  The agent had taken all of Q’s idiosyncrasies in stride thus far, but sometimes it took him a bit to fully come to terms with each scenario.  Right now, Q felt the increased surety in the man’s hand, just as Bond had gotten more and more at home with petting Q after their first tumultuous meeting.  In all honesty, James was a particularly wonderful petter, which was really rather shocking, whenever Q thought about what James did for his day-job.  These were the hands of an assassin-spy.

And yet Q felt unutterably safe and comfortable as the hand on his body grew more acquainted with his skin, each touch soothing and gentle despite the callouses Bond carried on every fingertip.  Q arched his back a bit at the next stroke, inviting it to slide further down the curve of his spine.  It was natural to purr a bit louder as 007 complied, a broad, warm palm traveling all the way to Q’s lower back.  There was no embarrassment; James wasn’t the only one to have that trained out of him.  When he’d been with his family yesterday, such a thought would have disturbed everyone with its wrongness, but here in James’s flat, it was just another piece that slid perfectly into place.  There was nothing wrong with the comfortable feeling in Q’s soul, as he knelt naked and quietly lapped up sweet, still-warm cider from a dish.  There was nothing wrong with the hand that eventually forayed far enough to stroke all the way to Q’s tail in a gentle sweep.  There was nothing wrong with Q playing the cat and with James obliging to treat him like one.

Maybe it was the warm food filling his belly; maybe it was the incontrovertible evidence that everything was all right, that his world was stable once more.  One way or another, Q felt like he was floating somewhere just above his own skin, and he didn’t even realize that his supper was all gone until he felt James’ hand beneath his chin.  At first it just scratched lightly at the vulnerable, soft skin there, making Q’s purr stutter and then deepen; then James was tipping Q’s head up.

Q blinked torpidly as his head rose, his body feeling lax and pleasantly detached from his brain.  He was only slightly surprised when he met James’s eyes, usually so blue, but now mostly dark with pupils dilated with clear interest.  It was so flattering that Q found himself almost giggling, and he certainly ended up with a small smile on his face even as James knelt up in front of him, dishes pushed aside by his knees.

A thumb just barely touched Q’s chin below his lower lip, and Q winced a bit at the stickiness that he knew to be there.  Before the good mood could be broken, however, James leaned a bit closer – until Q could feel the wash of the man’s breath against his messy face – and said in a voice gone low and husky, “Let me clean this up for you, hmm?”

Q hadn’t heard that tone of voice from Bond before, but he’d be lying to say that he hadn’t fantasized about it a time or two.  He found himself breathless and nodding, unable to find words.  He was still in the mindset of the pet, the cat, and speaking wasn’t something he’d been prepared to do – but thankfully, James didn’t require it.  No sooner had Q’s head tipped in a clear affirmative than the older man was leaning closer, and Q was startled by the unexpected touch of a tongue to the point of his chin.

If asked, Q couldn’t have said what he’d expected; in a way, perhaps he’d expected nothing at all, his brain still pleasantly adrift in endorphins.  Regardless, having James Bond licking his face was not what Q had expected, and yet it drew a happy, groaning sigh out of him nonetheless.  If Q had needed any more proof that there was nothing sick or disgusting here, this was it: Q had been James’ cat for the last half hour, but now it was 007 returning the favor, tasting and cleaning the last of the food from Q’s chin, chasing it to his lips, ending in a small but suckling kiss to the end of Q’s nose.  Q felt himself flushing, breathing picking up, but the moment only turned truly perfect when Bond’s hand transferred from under Q’s jaw to around his neck.  It should have been incredibly threatening, but Q never felt the expected spark of fear.  The feeling of that powerful hand around his throat, cinching up close beneath his jaw, reminded Q of the collar he used to wear – and sometimes missed, even if he didn’t dare tell anyone.  Anyone but Bond.  Right now, Bond was watching Q closely, still from very close.  “This okay?” James asked, very serious and calm despite the aroused quality still in his voice.

Q swallowed against the palm flush to his skin, and couldn’t resist the urge to close his eyes and relax into the grip.  “Perfect,” he breathed.

James rewarded him with an unexpected, chaste kiss to his mouth – unexpected, because despite all that they had been through, Q wouldn’t have described their relationship as romantic – and then returned to cleaning the smears of seared meat and the sticky droplets of fresh pear.  Acting on a desire that rose like a sudden wave, Q waited until he felt a tongue against his lips again, and this time opened his mouth to invite it in, touching it with his own.  The reaction was instantaneous, like kerosene catching fire with a spark, and suddenly Bond was groaning, and it became a proper kiss.  The hand around Q’s throat tightened possessively, but Q noted with approval that the 00-agent – who’d maimed and killed before, Q knew – never exerted enough power to hurt him.  Instead, the grip was just enough to show Q that Bond was perfectly in control, and that was precisely what Q wanted right now.

They broke after an indeterminable amount of time, both breathing fast enough that it must have been quite a stretch.  James actually looked startled and worried for a second, until he checked the tightness of his hand (Q felt the flexion of fingers around his throat, testing whether they’d actually been cutting off Q’s air or if the breathlessness was natural) and reassured himself that he hadn’t unconsciously done any damage.  Thus assured, blue eyes flicked back up to Q’s heavy-lidded gaze, and the agent’s only comment on their sudden kiss was, “You taste like apples.”

“It was good cider,” Q murmured back, feeling sleepy and content in a way that he hadn’t felt… well, since he’d last seen James, “The least I could do, I figured, was share it.”

James’s returning smile was slow and knowing, but also transparently fond – which struck Q as unusual, at least the transparent bit.  Wasn’t this supposed to be an agent who lied and hid his emotions for a living?  Instead of hiding anything, however, James let go of Q’s throat to instead grip Q’s upper arms in either hand.  He urged the younger man upwards.  “Come on.  Let’s get you into something warm before you catch cold.  Are you staying over?”

Q almost invariably did, on evenings like this.  Sometimes he wondered how long it would be before Sherlock or Mycroft asked him about his atypical living arrangements; Q had his own place again, but rarely ever used it.  “If I may.”

Bond hesitated – not in regards to his answer, it turned out, but in regards to his next action, which was to ease in close for another quick kiss.  The little peck was brief and light, testing the waters, but his words were as self-assured as usual, “Always.  Mi casa es tu casa.”

They were both on their feet now, and Q didn’t realize that his legs had gone to sleep until he swayed – Bond caught him.  It all felt so natural that Q found himself smiling and sighing softly.  Perhaps still somewhere in the mindset of the well-trained cat, Q let his hands rest on James’s chest (steadying himself) and butted his head gently against the man’s jaw.  Bond sucked in an almost inaudible breath at the nuzzle, but instead of pushing Q away, his grip on Q’s arms tightened and pulled him in more.  Q let his hands press closer, the little scars from his declawing standing out against even his pale skin, as he soaked up Bond’s radiant body-heat even through layers of clothing.  His own continued nakedness had yet to bother him, and he secretly hoped that modesty would take a long time to return – at least tonight.

“Hmm,” Q made a pleased sound of acknowledgement – part hum, part purr, the two sounds mingling in his throat as he closed his eyes.  “You have no idea how nice that sounds,” he said without thinking.

For a moment, there was no response.  But then one of James’ hands slid around Q’s bare back – pulling him into a more secure hold so that he wouldn’t fall, while also bringing Q’s bare front flush against Bond’s clothed frame – and the other rose up to gently fondle one ear.  James was always so gentle, Q had realized from the moment they’d first met, especially with Q’s most fragile pieces: his ears, his injuries, his insecurities… his heart.

When James finally replied, his answer was simple, but the way he hugged Q close spoke wonders: “In that case, let’s get you to bed.”

Ten minutes later saw them both in the agent’s bed, Q clothed in borrowed pajamas and resting comfortably in the lee of a muscular body.  It felt natural; it felt right.  They’d probably have to talk about those kisses tomorrow, but for now, they’d settled into their regular pattern.

“Have I told you,” Q said, leaning back a bit into James’ chest, “how much I appreciate the fact that you’re willing to sleep with me like this?”  
Bond shifted, his arm around Q tightening a bit.  If Q asked him to, Bond would wrap his hand around the base of Q’s throat like a collar, but Q hadn’t felt the urge to ask tonight.  

Voice already rough with sleep, 007 nonetheless obliged to answer, “Don’t mention it, Q.  It’s definitely not a hardship.”  With a bit more affection than usual, and again after that slight pause to indicate hesitation, Bond punctuated his last statement by pressing his lips to the back of one of Q’s feline ears.  It wasn’t quite a kiss, but it wasn’t not a kiss either.

Then, without needing to be asked, James found Q’s hands beneath the covers, loosely gathering them up within one of his own hands.  Q’s scarred fingertips ached in the cold, but now they started to immediately soak in the heat of Bond’s palm.  This was a familiar ritual, and Q found himself purring again almost immediately, his tail undulating a slow stroke against Bond’s thigh.

Just when Q thought that they were both on the verge of sleep, he heard a soft but sincere whisper against the back of his head, “You definitely aren’t a hardship.  Ever.”

If this was what true ownership and stability felt like, then Q was happy as he was.  Maybe he wasn’t in need of fixing as much as he’d feared.  Feeling relaxed and accepted in a way he didn’t feel anywhere else, Q wriggled back a bit more securely into Bond’s embrace, and kept up a soft but steady purr until sleep dragged him gently under.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that wasn't too weird for anybody. I'd been watching my friend's cats eat, and noticed how they let her pet them while they ate, and suddenly I had a 00Q idea... Inspiration comes from very odd places! And I just wanted to write more snuggly stories where Q gets his ears stroked by James!


End file.
